The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [61]
So the baroness had papyri. In my opinion that fact justified a visit. Emerson would not be pleased, though. I had lost John to the missionaries and Ramses to the baroness, and I had committed my husband to a social call of the sort he particularly abominated. However, there was one mitigating circumstance. We would be alone in the house that afternoon, and I had no doubt I could persuade Emerson to do his duty.
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Emerson was duly persuaded. He refused to wear proper evening dress, and I did not insist, for I had discovered that my red velvet gown was not suited to riding donkey-back. I put on my best Turkish trousers and we set off, accompanied by Selim and Daoud.
Bastet had been even more annoyed than Emerson to learn I had not brought Ramses back with me. We had shut her in one of the empty storerooms to prevent her from attending church with us; when I let her out she addressed me in raucous complaint and bolted out of the house. She had not returned by the time we left, nor had John.
“Something must be done about this nonsense, Amelia,” Emerson declared, as we jogged northward. “I won’t have John turning into a Brother of Jerusalem. I thought he had more intelligence. I am disappointed in him.”
“He has not been converted by Brother Ezekiel, you booby,” I said affectionately. “He is in love, and as you ought to know, intelligence is no defense against that perilous condition.”
Instead of responding to this tender remark, Emerson only grunted.
It was another of those perfect desert evenings. A cool breeze swept away the heat of the day. The western sky was awash with crimson and gold, while the heavens above our heads had the clear translucence of a deep-blue china bowl. Golden in the rays of the setting sun, the slopes of the great pyramids of Dahshoor rose like stairways to heaven. Yet the somber tower of the Black Pyramid dominated the scene. Because of its position it appeared as high or higher than the nearby southern stone pyramid.
We passed close by its base on our way to the riverbank. The ground was littered with chips of white limestone, the remains of the casing blocks that had once covered the brick core. The previous season de Morgan had uncovered the ruins of the enclosure wall and the funerary chapel next to the pyramid. A few fallen columns and fragments of bas-relief were all that remained above the surface of the ground. So much for futile human vanity; in a few years the relentless sand would swallow up the signs of de Morgan’s work as it had covered the structures designed to ensure the immortality of the pharaoh. The site was deserted. De Morgan was staying at Menyat Dahshoor, the nearest village.
We rode on, following the lengthening shadow of the pyramid toward the river. Several dahabeeyahs rocked gently at anchor, but it was easy to distinguish that of the baroness, since the German flag flew at the bow. A freshly painted plaque displayed the vessel’s name: Cleopatra. It was precisely the sort of trite, obvious name I would have expected the baroness to select.
A gentle nostalgia suffused me when I set foot on the deck. There is no more delightful means of travel than these houseboats; the Nile steamers of Mr. Cook, which have almost replaced them, cannot compare in comfort and charm.
The main salon was in the front of the boat, with a row of wide windows following the curve of the bow. The baroness’s dragoman threw open the door and announced us, and we stepped into a chamber swimming with sunset light and furnished with garish elegance. A wide divan covered with cushions filled one end of the room, and upon it, in more than oriental splendor, reclined the baroness. Golden chains twined the dusky masses of her unbound hair, and golden bracelets chimed when she raised a hand in greeting. Her snowy robes were of the finest chiffon; a heavy necklace or collar, of carnelian and turquoise set in gold, covered her breast. I assumed that the absurd costume was meant to conjure up the fabulous queen after whom